


Watering Weeds

by alltoseek



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Derogatory Language, Established Relationship, Fanfiction of Fanfiction, M/M, Pre-Slash, Reese and Finch are So Married, Reese is scary, Remix, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-01
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-10-13 16:42:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10517727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alltoseek/pseuds/alltoseek
Summary: Fusco dumped the bucket of soapy water over the top of Reese’s head.That was really stupid, he thought, but as he watched Reese's eyes go wide in shock and soap drip down his face, all he could think was:Totally worth it.“Nah, buddy,” said Fusco. “You’re all wet.” He chuckled a bit, couldn’t help himself.Alternate version of the infamous car-wash scene from Dien's "Weeds", with less violence and more pre-slashiness ;-)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dien/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Weeds](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1051092) by [Dien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dien/pseuds/Dien). 



> Familiarity with Dien's "[Weeds](archiveofourown.org/works/1051092)" is probably required to understand this ficlet. If you haven't read it (what are you waiting for? Go read it! ;-) or need a refresher, the basic premise is: Finch and Reese are living as a couple in upscale Long Island suburbia while Reese recuperates from a severe injury. They hire Fusco, former corrupt cop recently released from prison, as a "houseboy" to do the house- and yard-work. Fusco took the job because as a felon it's next to impossible to obtain work in his skill sets, or any job really. Harold's all for giving second changes, but Reese is convinced Fusco is a plant from HR.
> 
> For added hilarity, Harold and John coded the job ad to include interest in more intimate activities with their "houseboy" (Harold thinks Lionel's curly hair is 'lovely' :-). Lionel, desperate for any paying work, glossed over these hints and thinks it's just straight-up housework :D
> 
>  
> 
> The first chapter of this alternate version is cribbed from the car-wash scene starting in [chapter 22 of Weeds](archiveofourown.org/works/1051092/chapters/6953624); with abridgements, a few slight modifications, and a couple additions. The following chapters of this fic are my own invention.
> 
> Many thanks to Dien for permission to post this! <3

"You want all the cars washed?" Fusco asked, and Finch smiled and said, yes, please, let me get you the keys--

Lionel filled a bucket with water and soap and grabbed some sponges and towels from the garage. He drove the Maserati out first.

"Wondering which old friend in the city you could drop a hot car with?" Reese said from  _ right goddamn behind him, _ and seriously, how the  _ fuck _ did he do that? He spun on his feet, the bucket half-raised like a weapon, to find himself face to face with Reese with barely a few inches between them.

The prudent thing to do would be to back up. He was goddamn tired of backing up, and tired of Reese pulling this shit. So he stayed where the hell he was, and snapped, "'Scuse me?"

"You heard me," said Reese, gazing down at him with all that oozing contempt back in place. "Contacts within a corrupt police department... You wouldn't get full market value, of course, but still, a car like that, you'd pocket a good ten, fifteen grand, right?"

The sun was hot. There was a funny buzzing in his ears, but he'd come this far, right, so why fuck that up now... he was gonna see Lee soon, real soon... it was just words, it was just noise, it didn't matter...

He stood there, a wet sponge dripping in his hand, gazing up at Reese as Reese talked about what a piece of shit he was, his little curling smirk of disdain...

Reese said, "Or do I have it wrong? Are you really just a nice little houseboy trying to start fresh, and stay on the wagon?"

It was the... the  _ disbelief _ , he thought. It was that there was not one goddamn shred of faith in the idea that, yeah, he just  _ might _ be trying to do it right.

So, you know, fuck it.

He dumped the bucket of soapy water over the top of Reese’s head. 

_ That was really stupid, _ he thought, but as he watched Reese's eyes go wide in shock and soap drip down his face, all he could think was:  _ Totally worth it. _

Reese didn't look half as scary when his mouth and eyes were comically round 'O's.

“Nah, buddy,” said Fusco. “You’re all wet.” He chuckled a bit, couldn’t help himself.


	2. Chapter 2

Fusco walked past Reese to refill the bucket. Reese stuck his crutch out to trip him, but he was expecting that, this time. He shoved his strong stumpy legs into the crutch, swinging his hip into the movement. The crutch went flying and Fusco stayed on his feet. It was still a stumbling, graceless move. “Oops,” said Fusco. “Sorry ‘bout that,” he added, grinning over his shoulder back at Reese, who looked pretty much like a spitting-mad, wet cat. A spitting-mad, wet cat standing on one leg, with no crutch.

He filled up his bucket from the hose, adding the soap. The crutch was lying nearby. Reese hadn’t moved. Fusco picked up the crutch. “Oh, hey, you need this, huh?” he said, and tossed it to Reese, who caught it easily in one hand. From this distance Reese’s face just looked dark. Fusco couldn’t tell if the dead look was back, or if he was still furious, or what. C’mon, the guy’d been asking for it, and hell, it was a hot day; hardly hurt anyone to get a bit wet. Or more than a bit. He needed to stop staring at the way Reese’s soaked clothing clung to his body.

Fusco went round to the other side of the car, staying well out of range of Reese and his aluminum staff of death. He went back to washing the car, and noted out of the corner of his eye that Reese was limping away towards the house.  _ Finally _ . Thank fuck. 

Fusco was bent over, scrubbing down the fender, the rims, thinking how he’d dodged a bullet, when something like an icicle was shoved into his backside. “Yeeowww!” he shrieked, jumping upright. Reese had the hose, water turned up high, squeezing the nozzle to its tightest spray. 

It fucking  _ hurt _ .

And it was fucking cold. Reese was stabbing that harsh icy spray at his face now. Motherfucking hurt like a thousand wasp stings on his cheek. He could feel his flesh denting inwards wherever the spray jabbed him. He brought his hands up to block the water, and Reese moved it all over his body. “Okay, okay! Enough!” yelled Fusco. “Turnabout’s fair play, you got me back, okay?  _ Christ! _ ”

Reese stopped. He had a cold, ugly smirk on his face. Jesus, the guy was fucking psycho. Fusco was starting to think maybe the job really wasn’t worth it.

If it were only possible to get another one even half as good. Although half as good might still not be enough. Rent, child support, the car… expenses were endless. Fusco shivered. Psycho it was.

The psycho moved towards him, fortunately without the hose, but he still had the Death Stick, of course. Fusco eyed him warily. “You cold?” Reese inquired in his soft, menacing rasp. “Give me your clothes, I’ll wash ‘em for ya.”

“Nah, that’s okay. They’ll dry out here.”

“I insist,” insisted Reese, in that gentle voice which meant anything but. “Harold would be  _ so _ upset, if he knew I’d got you soaked and did nothing.”

“I - I don’t got spares. Here, I mean. No extra clothes here. Look, I’ll be fine.” Except he shivered again, dammit. Not from being cold, but from those damned icy eyes. Not that he could admit that much, either. Okay, maybe he was a bit cold - that water’d been  _ freezing _ . But he’d warm up plenty quick, working in the sun.

“It’s not a problem, Lionel,” said Reese, and finally those eyes were off him, looking round towards the road, which was a ways off, on the other side of the brick wall. “There’s nobody to see but us, and we won’t mind. I’ll even bring you sunscreen, rub it on your back.” Reese was looking at him again, smirking. But his eyes - they weren’t so dead no more, that was something. There was almost something like a light in them. A glint of laughing at him, but hell, anything other than that dead psycho stone-faced crazy was an improvement. “Are you shy?” Reese inquired mildly. “Here, I’ll go first.” He leaned the crutch against the car, and balancing on his good leg he took off his polo, lifting it from the hem right over his head. 

Fusco watched as skin was exposed, from his belly to his abs to chest to neck to his chiseled face. The smirk grew as Reese could see him again and Fusco realized he was gaping. He shut his mouth with a snap. “Your turn,” said Reese.

Fusco huffed. “Yeah, fine.” He stripped off his own shirt. He had nothing to compare with Reese, but he was done being body-shamed. He had nothing to be embarrassed about, either.

Reese’s expression turned - softer, somehow. He reached out a hand to Fusco’s chest. “Your hair here is curly too,” he said, petting it, running his fingers through it. Fusco shivered again. Creepy dude, what the fuck, anyway? “More so than the hair on your head, now.” Reese’s smirk was back. Yeah, his hair was soaked and lying almost flat down his head, what’d he expect?

Reese had picked his crutch up and was leaning on it and back against the car so he could lift his good leg up. “You’ll need to take my shoe off for the next part, Lionel.”

Wait, what? Aw, no, you gotta be kidding! “C’mon, man,” said Fusco. Well, whined, really, but give a guy a break.

“You’re still shivering, Lionel. And I did say I’d go first.” He gestured with his foot again. “But it’s a, uh, bit of challenge for me, so you could help a guy out.” The dickhead was practically laughing by the end. 

Well, fine. Laughing creep was better than furious psycho. Maybe. 

Fusco crouched down, took off Reese’s shoe, and peeled off the wet sock. He had a sudden bizarre impulse to kiss the top of the now exposed foot. It was long and graceful. Elegant, like the rest of him. Fusco thought he might kiss that foot, and might enjoy that, even. He set the foot down instantly. Goddammit, he was still shivering. This was insane.

“You might as well get your own shoes off while you’re down there,” reminded Reese.

“Yeah, yeah,” said Fusco, working them off. In the edge of his view, Reese’s slacks slouched in a pile at his feet. Fusco looked up those long, long legs to see that Reese had some curls-- Fusco shut his eyes and turned away. “Holy fuck I did not need to see that!”

Reese burst out laughing. “Pants are annoying enough, over the cast,” he said. “I haven’t been bothering with anything else.”

“I did not need to know that, either,” muttered Fusco.

“It’s alright, Lionel,” Reese mocked. “You can keep your shorts on. If you prefer.” 

Fusco glared up at him - right up into his leering face, past anything that might be on display in between. “Fine, fine,” he huffed, standing up. He unzipped his crappy thrift-store khakis, which had gone nearly translucent anyway, and were sticking to his skin unpleasantly. With difficulty he peeled them down while keeping his thin, cheap-ass boxers on. Not that they made much of a difference either. They  _ were _ soaked translucent.

Reese did not disguise his own thorough examination of Fusco’s body. “Well, at least I can now tell Harold that you have the double-you ee qualification.”

“What?” Fusco was confused. “Nah, I already told Mr. Finch that I couldn’t work weekends.”

It was Reese’s turn to be confused. “What do you mean? How is that related?”

“WE is for weekends, right? You wanted 5 days a week, with weekends being a plus. But Mr. Finch said --” Fusco stopped at Reese’s hearty laughter. Fine. At least one of them was having fun. But this really wasn’t how Fusco wanted to get the guy on his side. He didn’t see it ending well.

“All right, double-you ee was for weekends. And how did you interpret, hmm, gee em?” asked Reese through his smiles.

“Uh, General Maintenance?” guessed Fusco, still confused. “You wanted a houseboy for yard work and like, you know, general maintenance work, yeah?”

Reese was chuckling, trying hard not to belly laugh. What the  _ fuck  _ was so funny? Hey? What the hell?

“Sounds like you have it all figured out. General maintenance on weekends.” Goddamn dickhead wouldn’t stop laughing. “And then, uh, there was, uh, dee pee, I believe. How do you provide dee pee, hmm?”

“OK, well, DP was another one of those nice-to-haves, right? So I didn’t worry about it.”

“But what did you think it meant?”

“I just told you - I didn’t care what it meant! Look, I just wanted the job. And I knew I was over your eighteen to thirty age request anyway, and I said that in my response, and Mr. Finch still hired me, and he never mentioned this DP, whatever it is--”

“Alright, Lionel, calm down.” Reese gestured with his hand. “How about you give me the clothes now, hmm?”

“What? Oh, yeah.” Fusco gathered up all the sopping-wet clothing, Reese’s and his own, and was about to hand them over. “Wait, uh, shouldn’t I be doing the laundry?”

“But, Lionel,” Reese said in his mocking,  _ reasonable _ tone, “you need to wash the cars. I offered to clean the clothes.” Not waiting for Fusco’s mental gears to churn through that one, Reese reached into his arms with his free hand and took all the clothes, not even dropping a sock.

Fusco watched as Reese sauntered away into the house. Only that ninja gimp fucker could  _ saunter _ while limping along on a crutch. Fusco did not watch as the muscles in his shoulders shifted under his skin. Nor did he notice how Reese’s shapely buttocks tightened and swayed. Nope. Fusco was too busy watchin- _ washing _ their goddamn fuckin’ sexy Maserati to pay any attention to goddamn unfairly sexy fuckin’ ninja assholes.


	3. Chapter 3

“Lionel? How is it -- You’re not Lionel.”

“No, Harold, I’m not.”

“And you’re not wearing any clothes.”

“I see your powers of observation remain as sharp as ever.”

“John. Why are you doing laundry in the nude?”

“You know, you are adorably cute when you’re aroused, Harold.”

“Wait - you’re not  _ really _ jealous of Lionel, are you - no, you can’t be. Yes, fine, John. You can stop laughing now.”

“No, I really can’t. But to answer your question, when washing cars, one can sometimes get, hmm, a bit damp.”

“You were helping Lionel wash the cars?”

“Mmm, no, not exactly. But I offered to launder his clothes when they got wet.”

“Well. That was… kind of you.”

“It was, wasn’t it?”

“So, uh, so Lionel is also, hn,  _ sans _ clothing, as it were.”

“Well, yes, he is. Since his clothes are in the wash, and, as he pointed out to me, he doesn’t have any spares here with him.”

“Oh. Well. Perhaps I’ll just check on him - see how he’s coming along with the cars.”

“I thought you might do that.”

“Yes. I think I might…”

“Harold?”

“Yes?”

“You should bring a bottle of sunscreen with you. For Lionel. Out in the hot afternoon sun, with nothing covering his naked, vulnerable skin…”

“Oh. Oh, yes… He’ll certainly need that, won’t he…”

“Mm-hmm. And probably someone to rub it on his back as well. And those shoulders...”

“ _ John _ . You have the best ideas.”

“I do, don’t I? I might do some sunbathing myself, now that I think about it.”

“Oh - then you’ll be needing sunscreen too.”

“I’m sure you’ll check up on me, make sure I’m taken care of.”

“Oh, yes. Yes, I will, John. I’ll just go - go take care of Lionel, first.”

“Yes, Harold. You go do just that.”


End file.
